


It Probably Matters

by bikuai



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare - Fandom
Genre: Gen, I’m just glad to be done with this, Martian Society, Not Beta Read, Slice of Life, This was supposed to be a short crack fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikuai/pseuds/bikuai
Summary: How many hours of pain and bliss?
Kudos: 2





	It Probably Matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emergencypunter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emergencypunter).



> There’s nothing I can say to prepare you for what you’re about to read.

The dull pulsing of the automated home system rouses Admiral Salen Kotch from the deathly grip of sleep. After eighteen hours of mandatory performance testing in the combat mission sims, he had wanted to do nothing more than sleep. Another eighteen hours have passed, and he still isn’t in any mood to be up and about.

Kotch plants his face into his one saggy pillow. The droning continues, accompanied by the gradual rising of the lights.

It takes a minute to convince his body to move out of bed. A series of cracks accompany the stretching of his sore muscles. Waking up on Mars doesn’t feel the same to him as it used to. He’s grown so accustomed to the artificial gravity of the ships in his fleet, which run at a standard of one G. Non-military facilities on and below the surface of Mars didn’t have such systems; they had 37.6% the gravity of Earth.

Feeling lighter does wonders for one’s sleep but also makes it that much harder to pull oneself out of bed. And especially after the drills he ran the day before, the admiral more than welcomed a good night’s sleep. Too bad the clock reads six hundred.

After making it to his feet, the admiral trudges out of his bedroom.

“I’m up,” he murmurs to the system, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Usually, the motion sensors would have shut off the alarm by now, but his slow, staggering steps didn’t trigger them. The droning continues, and Admiral Kotch can feel the beginnings of a headache.

“I’m awake!” He growls in frustration.

The system shuts off promptly, leaving only the distant sound of the air circulation apparatus. The silence makes the flat he calls home feel emptier than before.

“Home system, play Edvard Grieg's Suite Number 1, Opus 46,” he commands, pulling one of the breakfast rations from the pantry. He’s not home often, but his housekeeper always makes sure there are two dozen egg and chorizo rations stacked neatly on the top shelf.

The system begins to play the piece, thankfully at a much lower volume than his morning wake up call. Kotch doesn’t particularly care for the suite, but it is better than hearing his neighbor, Vice Admiral Derhachov attempt to produce a rendition of _Roman’s Revenge._ Without fail, each day, Vlad would wake up and sing along to the Earthen icon’s signature voice.

And, he thinks as he sets the food in the thermal radiation chamber, it is certainly better than hearing the state-sponsored covers of Earthen and Martian songs. The same ones the High Council had forced him to do after being appointed admiral of the 8th Orbital Fleet. It was a relatively new tradition at the time, (only four albums of the sort had so far been released) but each admiral had to do it to “boost morale” within the fleet. Everyone knew that was a lie. The albums were just another way for the council to humiliate the military leadership.

Often, Kotch would be minding his business when his cover of _Pretty Young Thing_ would air on the state-run radio, and he would feel like slicing his own throat. Humiliation doesn’t come close to describing the feeling.

The timer on the food dings just as he finishes brewing a cup of black tea. He grabs it with the heat resistant glove then moves to sit at the counter. There’s only one place to sit: the most comfortable stool on Mars. Or at least that’s how it was advertised when he bought it for 20 duty dollars. In reality, it left much to be desired.

“Home system, what is my schedule for today?” He asks, biting into the breakfast burrito.

“At 9:30 you have a meeting in Cydonia City Hall concerning several traitors’ attempted escape to Luna. At 13:00 you are due to reembark on the Olympus Mons with your protégé. Within the day, you are expected to review the new skelter models present on the ship.”

The mention of his meeting sends a wave of exhaustion over him. He tries his best to avoid any correspondence with the High Council, except when absolutely necessary. The two divisions of the Settlement Defense Front government have a... _precarious_ relationship at best. However, this particular summit is unavoidable: the accused men were members of his own crew.

In the admiral’s eyes, there could not be a worse way to start his day.

After finishing his artificially engineered food, he moves to get ready for a long day. There is work to do, so there’s no time to waste.

The two-minute shower cycle seems shorter today, the water colder, the spray more piercing. The thirty second blast of scalding air does little to warm his spirits or his hair, which is still dripping as he tries to brush it back. The brush slips from his wet hands no less than three times. When his reflection looks somewhat presentable (not accounting for the bags under his eyes), the admiral dons his standard uniform and departs for the morning train.

***

A councilman meets him at the foot of the Cydonia city hall: the prosecutor. He doesn’t salute or bow or otherwise acknowledge the presence of a figure of authority. If anything, the admiral can feel only pure hatred piercing him from the pale depths of the councilman’s eyes. The artificial light falling from the cavern’s ceiling seems to get caught there, pinned in place by the fierceness in his gaze.

No words are exchanged as the two men ascend the steps to the grand chamber, where even more council members await the start of the trial. A group stands in the foyer near the door, exchanging crude jests and passing around a pocket-sized ethanol containment vessel. Kotch can identify a few of them as the scions of high ranking state officials. One calls out to them in recognition.

“Hey, Emin! I see you finally managed to drag Kotch off that damn ship! I was starting to think he’d be a no-show.” Inebriated laughter ensues among the group, knee-slapping and all.

Both approaching men cringe at the address, but before either could rebuke the councilman, a stern voice is heard through the sound amplification apparatus.

“All those present for the trial, please take your seats. The opening procedures will commence shortly.”

There is no delay in the admiral’s movements; he gives the group a wide berth as he steps around them and enters the grand chamber. What the room lacks in extravagance, it more than makes up for in size. The chamber is in the form of a semicircle with aisles that radiate from the central platform and cut through the countless staggered rows of seats. It is reminiscent of a Roman amphitheater, except this one was several hundred feet below the surface of Mars.

Beside the main platform, the head of the Loyalty Committee prepares his address, which is likely a long speech about “proper Martian values.” The committee is a subset of the High Council composed for the sake of handling cases like desertion and other treachery. However, Kotch can’t help but notice there are many more councilmen present than necessary. They have likely come in hopes of seeing the admiral disgraced.

Lucky for him, though, the seats in his direct vicinity are unoccupied. It’s a small victory.

Once everyone is seated, the trial commences with Intracore agents leading out the traitors onto the stage. They are forced to their knees as the committee leader begins his speech.

“It is a mournful time when we must admonish our own for betrayal of the Martian cause…”

Kotch tunes out the rest of the leader’s speech. He knows the protocol just as well as anyone here, and he wishes the council would just expedite the whole process. There are much too many formalities for the admiral’s liking; the accused have only the slimmest chance of being spared a cruel and unusual death.

Eventually, State Prosecutor Fahir Emin comes to stand at the podium. He projects slides onto the screen behind him. They show all the evidence against the prisoners, and Emin flips through them methodically. He’s done this a hundred times, and each time he hates it even more. As much as Emin would love to place the blame on lackluster leadership, directly attacking the High Command could result in a quick demotion of his sons in the armed forces.

The slide show is over as soon as it started, and the prosecutor retakes his seat.

After a short rebuttal from a family member of one of the accused, all seven deserters are charged with treason. The head of the Loyalty Committee returns to the podium.

“Seeing as these traitors were stationed on our great flagship, the Olympus Mons—and thus under the command of Admiral Salen Kotch—I believe he should be the one to administer the punishment to these enemies of the state. The date and time of the execution are negotiable but should be as prompt as possible.” He pauses a moment, a tight smirk on his lips. “Do you have any words for the council, Admiral Kotch?”

Though there was no audible response from the crowd, Kotch could feel the amusement of the councilmen. They brought him here to shame him, and this is how they were going to do it. The admiral sighs heavily but stands and walks down the aisle to the platform. From both sides of him, gazes like lasers track his every movement. This kind of disrespect from the leaders of the other half of the SDF government flips a switch in him. As admiral of the eighth orbital fleet, he outranked everyone in the room, and there’s no reason why he can’t finish the trial however he chooses.

When the admiral reaches the stage, he takes the position of the head councilman behind the podium. He had planned on making a statement, but in his rage, he chooses to speak freely.

“As you know, there have been a rising number of attempted desertions this past year, both military and civilian. I don’t think this phenomenon has as much to do with my leadership within my fleet than with the lamentable policies put in place here by the High Council. How else do you expect the Martian citizens to respond when you continue to cut rations and hyperinflate the duty dollar?

“Though there are some who flee at the sight of struggle, we are not a weak people. We, as Martians, are the builders of the greatest civilization the Sol System has ever seen. As such, I believe those that do our nation a great service deserve more than ten ration tickets a week. Mars aeternum.”

With that, the admiral turns around and pulls his gun. Seven shots resonate in the hall, one for each deserter. Blood and brains splatter on the projector screen behind them as their bodies hit the ground with a meaty thud. An ensemble of gasps punctuate the ordeal. Satisfied, Kotch holsters his sidearm as the stunned chamber looks on. He leaves without another word.

***

The trip from the city hall to the base of the space elevator is uneventful. Thankfully, all news from the High Council has to be screened and vetted by Intracore before the general public can know what came to pass within the grand chamber. Kotch can’t help but smile at the hell the censors will have to go through to render the story fit for the Martian populace.

The subway is nearly empty in the late morning. Only a few night shift stragglers can be seen shuffling about the platform. Admiral Kotch takes the Express Line, which runs directly from the Central Cydonian Station to the Tharsis Base Station. 

Once at Tharsis Base, the admiral suits up for the trip into space. The change in attire is subtle, but not unnoticeable. Despite everything, he likes to think his uniforms are stylish. No one else agrees. 

“Are we ready to depart for the shipyard?” Kotch asks the officer supervising the ascent. The operator is new, it seems, and he looks more than unnerved as he tries to answer the question.

“Uh, no sir. Not yet, sir. There’s a shipment of supplies that’s riding with us, but the train from north Cydonia is delayed. There will be at least an hour delay, sir.” 

The operator’s meekness is all that keeps Kotch’s anger in control. He wouldn’t want to frighten the poor man any more than his presence has already.

“Thank you, you may return to your post,” the admiral says, dejected. This day just keeps getting worse.

The operator, meanwhile, nearly collapses with relief before speed walking away.

After an hour and a half of standing around and staring out windows, the supply train finally arrives. The crew on duty runs to unload the cargo into the elevator.

Few other passengers are waiting for a ride up, so boarding isn’t as hassling as usual. They stand in a line to scan their identification cards, all restless to get on with their day. Two officers are especially agitated and mutter between themselves when they think the admiral is out of earshot. Kotch can’t help but overhear bits and pieces of their conversation as he scans onto the elevator.

“Y'know what I think is in them crates? Hair gel. Yonder admiral can’t leave home without it.” Disdain drips from his tone.

“Ha! You think? I _know_ what’s in those crates. It’s the admiral’s personal collection of luxury foodstuffs. Lobster, cheesecake, vintage wines...you name it! None of the synthetic stuff.”

They check in as well and—as the admiral’s luck would dictate—take the seats right behind him.

Kotch tries to tune them out, but their discussion of outrageous conspiracy theories continues throughout the whole ride up to the shipyard. If his patience for the day was already running thin, then now it’s almost nonexistent. He crosses his arms and balls his fists as he takes deep breaths. The timid operator can feel the irritation radiating off Kotch, and he has himself holed up in the corner, as far as physically possible from the admiral and the nuisances. The other passengers seem to notice as well, their volume lowering nervously.

“You want to know something? I think there’s no way you-know-who can have all them gourmet foods to himself. He probably has some of those ‘peripheral dependant’ ration cards, if you know what I mean.” The two share a hefty laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. We never see any family o’ his or nothing, though. Must be they’re all in hiding, living off of tapioca cakes and bottles of Martian Red. Ha!”

Admiral Kotch is more than ready to castigate them when the elevator stops, but something more important catches his attention.

The doors open, and waiting at the entrance to Tharsis Shipyard is Junior Lieutenant Cesar Magana, his protégé. Clutching his intelligence access tablet with eager hands, he looks overjoyed at the arrival of his mentor. Tension flees the room like air out of a balloon. 

The operator quickly finishes securing the door and hurries off to avoid any further confrontation. He stumbles over himself in the process, then disappears around the corner. Everyone else takes a moment to don their Velcro slippers before they enter the shipyard; gravity can be especially precarious while traversing Tharsis.

Kotch hesitates before walking to the exit. He had almost forgotten about the skelter inspection scheduled for Rotation Two, the “afternoon” shift aboard SDF warships. Though he has several hours to complete the review, the admiral still has to formally retake the conn, which means making an appearance on the bridge. And of course, the bridge is about as far as possible from the research and development hangars aboard the Olympus Mons. Kotch sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Greetings, Admiral! Your morning went well, I hope?” Magana has the most enthusiasm of anyone the admiral has ever met. Kotch usually enjoys the change in tone, but he doesn’t have the energy to keep up with it today.

“It was...productive,” Kotch replies absentmindedly. He walks quickly while Magana keeps pace beside him. There’s almost no one in the corridors, so it’s eerily quiet. The only sound is of their Velcro boots ripping from the carpet with each step.

“I assume the verdict was satisfactory then? I know you’re not allowed to disclose details but…” Magana gives an expectant pause that is met with a huff of dry laughter from the admiral.

“You already know what I’m going to say,” he states simply, taking a left into a radial corridor, one that is wider and occupied by several crewmen. “Don’t concern yourself with matters above your pay grade.”

Magana opens his mouth to refute or to apologize; the admiral couldn’t hear over the sudden commotion within the embarkation wing. A sigh of exasperation leaves him as he watches a crowd develop around one of the stations.

It seems that one of the pilots is receiving a docking violation from the shipyard officer on duty. Or at least, he would be if he hadn’t just knocked out the officer with his left hook.

“Uh, admiral sir, is that—”

“Yes.”

Before them is a skelter pilot notorious for his boisterous attitude and well-founded confidence. And apparently now, his punching skills. A living legend, Lieutenant Serozh Sarkisyan has more than enough experience under his belt to justify his reputation.

That was part of the reason Admiral Kotch had the lieutenant transferred to the _SDS Hellas_ ; Vice Admiral Derhachov might be able to keep an eye on the pompous son-of-a-bitch. Kotch smiles at his own pun, but it is quickly wiped away at the sight of Sarkisyan being congratulated by a hoard of junior cadets. The admiral would never admit to being envious of a lieutenant pilot who lived in a skelter for two months, but his heart did twinge in longing. Oh, how much easier his life would be if everyone worshipped him as they do Sarkisyan.

“Ah, look! Our great admiral is here to join us!” The lieutenant announces.

The mood shifts suddenly. The lower-ranking men become quiet and uncomfortable as they inch away from the approaching admiral. The shipyard officer is still on the ground, moaning incoherently. The lieutenant casually steps over him and comes up to shake the admiral’s hand.

“Long time no see, huh?”

Kotch answers with a somewhat affirmative grunt. _Not long enough._

If Sarkisyan notices the admiral’s annoyance, he doesn’t show it. “How are things on the Olympus? You’re heading there now, yes?”

“Yes, and I am very busy today, so I don’t have time to loaf around here,” Kotch says, leading Magana away from the pilot and toward one of the available drop ships.

“Always in a hurry, you are. No problem. I would be honored to pilot the shuttle to your ship. All the other guys are out for lunch.” Sarkisyan smiles triumphantly. He’s got the admiral in a bind.

Kotch doesn’t have the energy to contest. “Fine. Just make this quick.”

***

The ride is quick, but Sarkisyan is especially chatty, talking up a storm about his exploits. Lots of near-death encounters and dramatic rescues. Kotch guesses that at least half of them were staged. 

Magana is deathly silent as the Warden zips between destroyers and supply tugs. For all his work on the skelter series, Magana hates the quick maneuverings of small ships. Says it upsets his stomach. Sarkisyan’s signature flying style isn’t helping things either. The admiral is worried but chooses not to disclose his misgivings in front of Sarkisyan.

Magana all but clambers out of the dropship as soon as they dock with the Olympus Mons. Kotch thanks Sarkisyan curtly before hopping out to assess Magana’s state. He’s dizzy but otherwise unharmed.

“Promise me you’ll never let him fly again,” he says, catching his breath.

The admiral nods. “That can be arranged.”

Without further interruption, they begin the long walk to the bridge for Kotch to retake the conn. The admiral dreads every step, knowing very well that it would be a spectacle, no matter what he did. It’s the nature of the tradition.

Sometimes he wishes he had a formal captain to take responsibility when he was gone. However, due to certain obscure regulations, the flagship is exempt from the typical SDF rank structure. For his shore leaves, Kotch is required to assign someone to look over the ship. The first time using this privilege, he had the bright idea of submitting to the whims of a close friend. He assigned her as temporary commander of the flagship, then left to go frolic about the surface of Mars.

The admiral has made this mistake five times now, and the precedent continues unbroken. Somehow, she can always twist him into giving her what she wants: usually priority positions on missions and contraband materials, nothing too incriminating for the admiral. But command of his flagship? There is no doubt that someone suspects favoritism by now, but quite frankly the admiral doesn’t care. It’s too much work on his part to try to find an officer half as charismatic as her. Besides, the bridge only caught fire once under her command, and it was an accident.

The hall to the bridge is silent, and for a moment, the admiral’s worries cease. Maybe just once, the exchange of power will be a nice, systematic occurrence without unnecessary conflict. His hopes are cast asunder when he sees a cadet curled up against the wall, sobbing his eyes out.

Kotch ignores him and opens the door to the central control of the Olympus Mons.

The bridge looks livelier under the command of Bellona Paulus. Officers loosen up without the admiral over their shoulders, talking casually as they await instructions. Music is playing in the background, one of Kotch’s own covers. He almost doesn’t notice, eyes fixed on Paulus.

Or, more specifically, the crate of Belgian milk chocolates at her feet. The one that costs the equivalent of ten thousand duty dollars. It seems like everyone on the bridge got a sample of the admiral’s stash. Paulus smiles brightly at him, eyes full of mischief.

“Admiral on the bridge!” She yells. All heads snap to face the two newcomers. “You’re late, so you missed your welcome back party,” she adds, unapologetic.

The admiral is speechless for half a second then regrasps his wits. “Get off my bridge,” he growls. The tone of the room dives into solemnity. All the guilty, chocolate-smeared faces lower in shame, avoiding the harsh gaze of the admiral. Bellona Paulus is unfazed and tosses Kotch a chocolate as she stands. Magana catches it before it hits his mentor and pockets the delicacy.

“You seem more stressed than usual, Salen. Is it because of what happened this morning?” She asks so casually about it, and he hates it. He hates that she knows the full story because she never misses an opportunity to tease him.

“It’s none of your business,” he states firmly. “You are no longer needed on the bridge, so you should resume your standard duties. And as I remember, you have Rotation One,” he adds. “Your next shift is twelve hours from now.”

She ponders that for a second then presses the button to connect with SDF Spaceport Control. “Olympus Mons to Tharsis Control.”

The bridge is silent, then suddenly filled with Earthen pop music. The contraband kind. Control can barely be heard over the beat.

“Heyyy! Wassup? I heard the admiral is on his way up there, so you should totally like, uh, hide the body and stuff...” Sounds like Spaceport Control has had a little too much to drink.

Paulus answers, but her eyes don’t leave the admiral. “Yeah, thanks for the tip but I think it’s a little too late for that now. The admiral is on the bridge.”

Chaos ensues on the other end of the line. Shouts and the fumbling of bodies add to the commotion as the Spaceport crew attempts to sort out their station. _My Humps_ can still be heard in the background.

Paulus picks up the box of chocolates. “The conn is all yours.” She leaves.

Magana dutifully follows the admiral to his seat at the center of the bridge. Anger radiates off his mentor: the deep, simmering kind. 

“Olympus Mons actual to Tharsis Control. I would like to know what the fuck is going on.”

Behind the admiral, his protégé is trying and failing to hold in his laughter. The response from Tharsis is incomprehensible aside from a batch of very creative curses in the background. The music is still playing.

The admiral’s patience withers, and the whole bridge tenses in expectation of an outburst. Little do they know, Kotch has already had his one allotted temper tantrum of the day. All that remains is passive-aggressive resignation. He turns off his cover of _Kokomo._

“I am incredibly disappointed in all of you. Don’t you realize that every moment of every day, the Earthens are plotting to bring an end to us? They will not think twice when putting our necks to the blade. Meanwhile, within our great shipyard, you are desecrating the name of the Settlement Defense Front. You have no respect for the importance of your position, and you blatantly disregard the standard protocols.

“Frustrated as I am with your behavior, I can’t say that I am particularly astonished. Every one of you earned your position through subterfuge, manipulation, and bribery, so it’s only to be expected that you cannot do the bare minimum required of your post. For Mars’s sake, you can’t even abstain from playing that shitty Earthen music.

“Your extraordinary insubordination would be the death of you in any other situation. However, I’m feeling quite merciful today, so all of you will be relocated to the mining facilities on Titan. Indefinitely.”

The room was dead silent through the admiral’s monologue. At his final statement, several gasps are heard on the bridge, including one from Magana. The labor camps in the Saturn Cluster are notorious for their high rates of death and injury, while also containing the most arduous work carried out by humans in the SDF. Not a fun place.

“Uh, Admiral, sir? Does that include us?” A navigation officer asks.

Kotch doesn’t look at him. “If by ‘us’ you mean the current bridge staff, then yes.”

Several more gasps and a few sobs erupt.

***

After an hour of organizing the documents needed for termination reports and relocations, the admiral has finally documented enough to complete the transfers. Though having his own private study facilitates the speed at which he can review paperwork, it is still a tedious process.

“I’m done sorting the relocation requests. I’ll send them out later, so we can do the skelter craft inspection now,” the admiral announces, turning his chair from his desk to face the room. His protégé is idly mulling over the miscellaneous medals and other awards framed on the walls. His fingers drum anxiously over the tablet strapped to his hip.

“Yes sir,” Magana answers quietly, still shaken by what happened on the bridge. He’d never seen his mentor so angry, not even when someone spilled iced coffee on the Focused Spectral Array prototype weapon. Part of him feels bad for those being sent to the labor camps, but he knows better than to question the whims of the admiral. Instead, he lets his eyes drift over the rows and rows of military achievements. Something is missing, he notices.

Magana pauses then faces the admiral. “Excuse me if it’s not my place, but may I ask something a bit, uh, personal?”

Kotch is silent for a moment, brows raised. He recovers, twisting his pen between his index and middle finger. He’s not amused. “Be careful, Cesar,” he says, crossing his right leg over his left.

Seeing that the admiral didn’t explicitly forbid him, Magana decides to go for it.

“Where is the jar?”

That’s not what Kotch expected. He tilts his head, perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

Magana is even more visibly nervous now. “Oh, uh, you know, the jar with Derhachov’s eye in it. I thought you were the one who…” he trails off. A breath of silence settles in the study.

Then, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, Admiral Salen Kotch really, truly laughs. One full of mirth and surprise and _life_. If Magana didn’t know any better, he would have thought the admiral was happy. Instead, he stands awkwardly across the room, silent as a sentinel while Kotch tries to suppress his laughter with his hand. When the admiral finishes, his face is flushed and his ribs are sore. He stands slowly, a tired but honey-sweet smile on his lips.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been listening to those conspiracy theories,” he jokes. “If you’re going to ask about them, just say so next time and I’ll set things straight. You had me worried for a second: answering ‘personal questions’ isn’t my strong suit, as you know.” The admiral strolled from his desk to where Magana stood next to a bookcase. The shelves hold souvenirs, memorabilia, model weapons, and the occasional military decoration. No portraits or family photos. Magana makes note of that; one day he'll ask about it.

The admiral continues, “There is no jar, but yes, I did take out Vice Admiral Derhachov’s eye. It was a long time ago, and it was for a good reason. What made you think about that at a time like this?”

“I always thought you’d keep it here.” Magana shrugs. “Also, didn’t Vlad lose his eye on Titan? What were you doing—” 

“Didn’t I say to be careful asking questions? What happened is classified; I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.” All of his jest is gone by now; the admiral has returned to his usual stern disposition. “Now let’s hurry and review the skelters. It’s been a long day for me.”

Magana blinks. “Yes, sir.”

***

The hangar is as busy as ever. Engineers bustle to and fro while automated workbenches roll down their tracks. Even now, adjustments are being made to ensure optimal performance of the next generation of fighter aircraft.

From the raised walkway, the admiral can look over the rows upon rows of skelters resting in their appropriate parking spaces. They appear to be a formidable force—well, aside from the ones still being assembled. Compared to the older series of skelters, the new planes _do_ look more deadly, if that counts for anything. The noses are pointier, the edges of the body more defined, and the windshields more compact. As aerodynamic as they may be, the cosmetic changes work primarily as a way to distinguish between friendly skelters and UNSA jackals. Magana admits that much at least.

“We took into account the high rates of friendly fire in previous skirmishes. It seemed only logical to change the fundamental design of our skelters to avoid future casualties,” he explains as they turn to the stairs.

Kotch mulls that over. “How do we know the UNSA isn’t doing the same thing?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Magana mumbles after a pause. Another oversight on his part. He makes note of it on his tablet.

The admiral nods at that, clasping his hands behind his back.

Like all parts of the Settlement Defense Front, the research and development labs are wrought with internal issues. It seems as if every week, something decides to go wrong. And what’s worse, no one seems to want to take responsibility for any of it. In fact, there is still a bounty out for the junior engineer that left his cappuccino on the F-SpAr prototype. Maybe the carelessness stems from the fact that R&D has more funding than it knows what to do with; everything eventually gets fixed or replaced at the expense of the High Command’s budget.

They descend the rest of the stairs in silence, Kotch leading. He seldom visits this part of the ship, so there is much he needs to catch up on. When they reach the main floor of the hangar, he presents more questions.

“Why don’t we just construct a better vessel recognition interface? Wouldn’t that be more practical than compromising the structural integrity of our skelters?”

The admiral doesn’t get an answer, not that he expected one. It’s a tough question, considering that the aim-assist software still hasn’t received many of its much-needed updates. The updates were proposed over a hundred degrees of Martian Solar Longitude ago, yet the features still haven’t been prototyped. Kotch doesn’t think they’ll be enacted in time for Operation Riah, either.

That aside, they begin the physical inspection with a skelter marked “X1” on its wings

Inside, the skelters have been outfitted with synthetic leather, ergonomic motion controls, and retractable...cup holders? On the left side of the cockpit, almost out of sight, are indeed a pair of cup holders. Magana explains that they are meant to hold caffeine electrolyte ration cans, but the admiral doubts their practicality.

“What if the drink spills during a maneuver?”

“They don’t. All cans produced after Sol 447 of last year have auto-lock spill protection. Isn’t it genius?”

It seems like a waste of money, but Kotch doesn’t want to further ruin Magana’s good mood. He continues the inspection by moving to review measurements of the engines. They are more compact and more efficient, but repairs beyond routine maintenance require a complete disassembling of the engine casing. The admiral considers this, then asks another question.

“What is the top jet speed?” 

“5,100 kilometers per hour. That’s a two hundred kilometer increase from the current series.”

“Can I see the mandatory mechanical assessment report?”

“Yes, sir.” Magana hands him the datapad.

The report is little more than a hundred point checklist of all essential instruments. To conduct the test, an engineer would go through the skelter and press some buttons to ensure everything functions as expected. On paper, the ships look to be in perfect shape, but the admiral knows better than to take things at face value.

“In your own opinion, do you think these jets are safe to fly?” He gestures to the finished skelters.

“Not at all, sir,” Magana replies, without hesitation. 

Kotch blinks. “Thank you for your honesty, Cesar, but I’m required to watch an aerial demonstration as per High Command regulations.”

Magana nods. “I know.”

They both stand there silently, looking at the row of finished skelters. A minute passes, then two. Finally, Kotch speaks up, not having any idea what to expect.

“So who did you choose for the test flight?”

“Someone you wouldn’t miss,” Magana answers simply. 

“Ah, I see.”

Nothing else is said of the issue.

The rest of the evening is spent assessing the skelters’ test flight from the observation deck. The panoramic window allows a wonderful view of the inky black expanse of space, marred only by distant pinpricks of light. The skelter dives through the vacuum like a comet, a bright splotch with a long train of milky vapor. Quite majestic if one were to look past a skelter’s inherently belligerent existence.

It rolls and strafes and swivels as one would do in combat against a UNSA ship, going through twenty of the Front’s fighter jet flying fundamentals. Each maneuver is done twice, once from the left and once from the right. That adds up to about an hour of sitting around and staring out into space. Watching the skelters lost its novelty after about fifteen minutes of corkscrew turn variations.

Fortunately, by the end of the assessment, there is only one serious malfunction and no fatalities. That leaves the admiral without any extra paperwork for the evening. Magana, on the other hand, has a critical damage report to write.

***

The admiral and the junior lieutenant are on their way out of the hangar when a call comes through on the former’s portable communications device.

He answers it promptly. “Olympus actual.”

The voice on the other side responds. “Iani Chaos actual. I, uh, have a very important request. Is now a bad time?”

This whole day has been a bad time, but Kotch doesn’t mention that. “No, you’re fine. What do you need?”

“Well, I’ve been on my ship for almost three hundred sols straight, and, uh, I think it’s about time I had a chance to go back to the surface for a while. I have a family, you know: wife, kids, the whole deal. I’m sure you understand, sir.” Is that sarcasm? The admiral can’t quite tell.

Zalanyi continues, “I won’t be down there long at all. I promise to be extra productive when I come back too. No more late reports, I promise! Everything will—” Attila Zalanyi would have continued to ramble on if Kotch didn’t interrupt him.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll grant you fifty sols of leave if you turn in your inventory checklist. It was due several sols ago.”

“Yes sir, of course. I’ll do that right now. Thank you, sir.” Relief floods Zalanyi’s tone. 

“And I also need you to make sure the manual core meltdown button on your ship gets replaced. We don’t want any more accidents,” the admiral warns. _SDS Iani Chaos_ is known for its tendency to malfunction and cause mayhem. No doubt R&D is behind those problems as well.

“Oh, do not worry; it was repaired last week,” Zalanyi reassures. “And even if it wasn’t, I am not afraid of death, Admiral.”

Those are famous last words, if Kotch had ever heard any. He sighs. “Just promise me you won’t self-destruct over something trivial.”

“I promise.” He pauses. “When does my leave start?”

“Whenever you turn in your inventory report.” Kotch hangs up after that.

Magana had waited patiently off to the side as the admiral finished his call. “Anything important, sir?”

“No. Tomorrow we’ll discuss the distribution of the new skelters. I want to make sure Sarkisyan doesn’t get his hands on one,” he says. “You should go get some rest before then.”

His protégé nods. “Good night, Admiral.” Magana then turns a corner and disappears down a stairwell. Kotch knows the lieutenant won’t get a wink of sleep till he finishes his report, but he can’t bring himself to sympathize with Magana right now.

Fatigue tugs at the admiral’s mind, but he pulls himself together just enough to make it up to Deck C. It is finally time to retire to his quarters.

The flat isn’t much larger or more luxurious than his apartment on Mars, yet he feels more at home when living on his ship. He immediately goes to the food preservation compartment where his favorite shepherd’s pie is waiting for him. He pulls it out along with a bottle of sparkling water (alcohol is not permitted on SDF warships).

Sometimes Kotch feels guilty that he has a personal chef to cook him gourmet meals. This is not one of those times. It’s been a long day, and he feels like he deserves a bit of a reward. Has a little luxury ever killed anyone?

He eats in silence. The eternal night of SetDef life drifts on. When he tucks himself in for bed, he hopes tomorrow will be better, but he knows it won’t be. Every day is a little bit too similar for his liking. Not that his likings ever had an effect on anything; all they’ve done is lead to disappointment.

That thought tickles his mind for a moment. Is it really worth getting up in the morning to lead all his men into needless bloodshed and propagate nationalism for a state that can’t even take care of its citizens? Does the Front really have to destroy a whole planet’s worth of people to make a point about superior Martian values? Kotch tries to mull it over, but the threads of sleep are already pulling his consciousness away. He succumbs to the soft embrace of his pillow, choosing to forget about his momentary existential crisis.

It probably doesn’t matter.

**Author's Note:**

> No more CoD fics after this.


End file.
